Mental State, page 3
He needed to depersonalize this, make it about the bad guys, not family wreckage. So he forced his thoughts onto Pakistan. Lahore was the game changer, the piece of the puzzle that turned his hunch into a lead.
He wasn’t usually a rule breaker, boundary pusher, or line crosser. Not in his personal or professional life. But here he was on the threshold of an unauthorized and arguably illegal investigation. He’d never had a case that made him desperate to break any rule to get his man. Until now. For the first time, Royce knew what Bruce Banner felt like—the beast inside was stirring.
Inside the bar, he took a seat on a rickety plastic-covered stool, flagged the bartender, and ordered two Whistle Pigs. He put his hat on the stool next to him, as if he were saving it for Alex, and slid one of them over.
When he opened the folder titled NSL, Royce could feel in his bones that the regular guy in him was not leading this investigation.
The first document in the NSL folder was a template for writing a national security letter. NSLs were basically secret subpoenas that, under the authority of the president, allowed the FBI to demand private companies, like airlines and telecommunications firms, turn over administrative records regarding the subject of a national security investigation. The great thing about an NSL was that judicial approval was not needed before issuing one, and the potential for judicial review after the fact was fairly remote. It was a way for him to conduct a covert investigation entirely outside of normal jurisdiction and without many questions from his chain of command. He just needed to get one authorized. It would have to go through Ms. Rachelle for processing, but it wouldn’t have to go through the supervisory special agent for a few days.
Royce had little experience with NSLs. They’d been used since the late 1970s, but it wasn’t until the Patriot Act of 2001, passed in the wake of 9/11, that the use of NSLs took off. FBI agents now wrote thousands of NSLs every year. Royce had only used them a few times, since he spent most of his time chasing drug dealers and corrupt local cops, not Al-Qaeda, much to his boss’ chagrin.
For the first time in two decades with the FBI, Royce was about to lie. He was sure Alex’s trip to Lahore last year was for a boring and utterly benign academic conference on financial regulation. He knew his brother wasn’t a dupe for terrorists or, even worse, a terrorist himself. But travel to Pakistan coupled with a suspicious murder was sufficient justification to demand Verizon, Comcast, United Airlines, and Bank of America turn over “non-content” information to the FBI. Within a day, he would have a list of numbers that Alex called and numbers calling him for the past year. Although NSLs would not provide the content of calls, just knowing who Alex called, what websites he visited, what trips he took, and what money was moving in and out of his accounts would be helpful. The NSL was also a great smokescreen and a reason for him to be in Chicago, hunting Alex’s killer.
Royce was half way into his whiskey when he felt a tap on his shoulder. “Hey, what are you writing, man?” the words were slurred and stank of Old Style.
Royce slammed his laptop closed and turned aggressively toward a chubby salesman who grinned at him stupidly.
“Whoa! Relax. I’m not into your stuff. Jus’ making conversation.”
Royce looked at the floor next to the bar stool to check out the salesman’s briefcase. Tumi. Royce shook his head.
“My brother just died,” Royce scolded him.
“Jesus, are you serious? I’m sorry, man.” The salesman ducked his head and looked in the other direction. Royce felt ashamed, but he was in no mood. He stuffed the computer back in his bag, dropped forty dollars on the counter, and looked at the Whistle Pig he’d ordered for no one sitting there on the bar. He slid it across to the salesman, and headed outside, fumbling for the phone.
Ms. Rachelle picked up on the fourth ring.
“It’s me.”
Her brusque tone melted into the receiver. “I heard the news, so sorry—”
“I need an NSL processed.”
“But you’re on bereav—”
“True, true, but you know me. I’ll go stir-crazy if I don’t do something—I mean—have something to do.”
A tsk, tsk of sympathy, then a note of suspicion. “Where are you?”
“In Chicago. Taking care of family business.” He wasn’t lying. Much.
“Oh, you poor thing.”
“Just do me a favor, Rachelle? Send my NSL to be processed, but don’t spread it around.”
“Well I suppose—”
“I don’t want anybody to think I’m hard hearted. I just need to get my mind off…”
“Oh yes, yes,” she exhaled. He could picture her forehead wrinkling with concern.
CHAPTER 6
October 2014
Lahore, Pakistan
Alex flew twenty hours to Lahore, where a thin, very dark-skinned man in a suit two sizes too big and a mustache that looked like Alex’s badger-hair shaving brush was waiting for him with a sign that misspelled his name. He’d flown for what seemed like days and arrived in the sweltering heat of two-in-the-morning Pakistan. The next day was a blur. At a hotel near the airport that was supposed to be upscale but seemed like a run-down Red Roof Inn, he had a terrible sleep on a mattress that would have made Civil War soldiers complain, then a breakfast of mystery gruel with fruits he’d never seen, before heading off to day one of the conference.
The University of South Asia turned out to be a real place, with professors and students milling about in the heat of under-air-conditioned hallways and lecture halls. The buildings did not evoke Oxford or Hogwarts. The Institute of Management Studies, where the conference was held, looked like a low-budget apartment complex one would find in Memphis or Little Rock. Only scattered air-conditioning units with spinning fans groaning to keep up with the oppressive heat broke the stark brick walls of the exterior. They were no more successful in their work than in their architectural beauty. Everything seemed to drip sweat. Palm trees dotting the courtyards and bougainvillea climbing some of the walls gave it a tropical feel, but in a kind of pathetic way. It reminded him of what run-down Cuban sugar cane plantations must look like now that Soviet subsidies are dried up.
The conference was sparsely attended, even by relatively low expectations. About a dozen or so people were scattered about in the audience, and four people sat on the dais when Alex walked into the room five minutes early. Introductions were short and involved excessive praise for Alex. He was here in part to be sucked up to, and even false praise felt good sometimes, but this was over the top.
These trips never gave much time for reflection—the jet lag and unfamiliarity of space heightened the senses, making the colors and smells and foods all the stranger and disquieting. Normally, Alex considered this a feature not a bug of his vagabond lecture circuit, but there was something out of whack about this one, he was sure. He just couldn’t bring his brain around to focus on it. It was too busy trying to process the scene.
Alex took his place on stage and was the first to speak. He gave a lecture on the financial crisis that he’d given many times before. He talked about the causes of the crisis and a criticism of the legislation passed in its wake. Alex had especially hostile comments about the president’s plan to institute a national pension scheme that would replace all private 401(k) and IRA accounts, banning average Americans from owning non-government-managed retirement plans. Only those with a net worth of more than five million dollars and who passed a financial literacy test would be allowed to invest in private accounts. The Supreme Court was likely going to review the law in the near future, as cases challenging it were working their way up through the lower courts. Alex made a sustained argument against its constitutionality and wisdom. It was how American law academics talked—high level, critical, and, he thought, interesting.
The panelists who followed spoke English, but Alex didn’t understand much of what they said. Sitting there trying to keep from nodding off, Alex spent most of the time attempting to figure out whether he couldn’t understand them because of their thick accents or because the arguments were just this side of gibberish. He had a low opinion of foreign law professors, not only because he believed passionately in American exceptionalism. His colleagues at Rockefeller and other top American schools struck him as insightful, while friends at German, Italian, Japanese, and Chinese universities were, despite being interesting people, trapped in an academic culture that favored arcane interpretation of legal doctrine and rules, rather than creative thinking. The Pakistani panelists weren’t even up to these low standards he’d come to expect from foreign law professors—they reminded him more of Student 1189 than his colleagues.
The lunch break came a bit before noon, and it felt like a death row reprieve from the governor. He stepped outside into a steam room. His glasses fogged up. Coupled with the lack of sleep it was dizzying. In the courtyard, a few students were aimlessly launching balls at a dilapidated basketball hoop. Three burqa-clad women stood like statues watching, looking like a Pakistani version of the Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders. Alex smiled at the thought, then felt bad about it. Decades inside the liberal bubble of academia had nearly purged him of his old sense of humor, dealing as it did in cultural stereotypes and put downs. After all this time, Alex wasn’t sure whether this was a good thing or not. He was a lawyer, which meant he could see both sides of the argument.
After wiping his glasses off, Alex saw two men standing a few feet away looking at him. This wasn’t unexpected. He was used to being stared at in foreign countries—at over six and a half feet tall and with skin the shade of a glass of milk, he didn’t fit in many places outside of Scandinavia. He was a curiosity in photo albums across Japan, based on the number of times he’d posed with groups of bemused locals on his many trips across the country.
Alex ignored them. Standing out in Tokyo was one thing; Americans—he was obviously an American—weren’t exactly popular in this part of the world. He glanced down at a map of the university, trying to figure out where the lunch buffet was. But he looked up when he felt the stare lingering. Their posture and intense glare were startling.
“Professor Alex Johnson?” the smaller of the two men asked.
“Yes,” Alex said with an appropriate amount of caution. The larger of the two men introduced himself.
“I’m Ibrahim Khan, Dean of the Institute, and this is my colleague, Sameer Rajput, Dean of the School of Law. We are delighted you are here.”
Alex saw in their eyes that this was not the first time they’d seen a fish out of this particular water. “Sorry. I’m just a bit sleep deprived.” He felt the relief wash over him. It revealed guilt at jumping to conclusions.
“We’d be delighted to take you to lunch with our gracious benefactor who made the conference possible,” the law dean said.
“Aren’t we…isn’t there a lunch for the conference?” Alex wasn’t trying to be difficult; he was just confused.
“Yes, yes, of course, of course,” Khan nodded vigorously. “We have a special event planned for you.” He smiled a toothy grin. “You’ve come too long a way to eat cafeteria food. Plus, I think you will enjoy meeting Mr. Chowdhury. He is a very important person in Pakistan.”
“Okay,” Alex said without much thought—these were men of authority and the special treatment pushed his ego button. He’d never heard of Chowdhury, but the idea of escaping the dreary campus and upgrading on the food front was appealing. He followed the men, who didn’t seem to have been awaiting his response, and climbed into a waiting Al-Haj Sirius S80. Alex squeezed his giant frame into the front seat of the Chinese-built SUV and directed the air conditioning toward his face. The SUV raced off the campus grounds and headed north out of the city.
About thirty minutes later they pulled into a walled compound that abutted the River Ravi on the west side and the Shahdara Reserve Forest on the east side. The scene was beautiful, but the buildings had the crumbly, third-world feel of the Bin Laden compound. Ten-foot-tall iron gates opened and they drove through on a gravel driveway. Alex shivered. This was a first for any conference he’d attended.
Inside the compound, dozens of men milled about. Everyone wore a jacket that was some variation of the Members Only jacket Alex remembered were popular when he was a kid. They were not only anachronistic, but an odd choice given the heat. Alex sensed they were covering more than bodies; he suspected many were shielding submachine guns from plain sight. The thought of being surrounded by armed men made his stomach turn. He was afraid for the first time in a very long time, and strangely exhilarated.
The SUV pulled in front of a grand entrance where a large man with a snow-white smile and skin the color of a lion’s mane greeted them.
“Assalaam-o-Alaikum!” the man shouted as Alex folded himself out of the SUV.
The man introduced himself as Mohammed Chowdhury, and he embraced Alex with arms like a pair of pythons. The familiarity shocked Alex, but he was too unsure of the situation to mount a protest. When in Lahore, he thought to himself.
Chowdhury led the way into a large inner courtyard lined with fruit trees and buzzing with staff of various kinds. They were seated on the floor on plush mats and served tea and an assortment of cakes and finger foods. Bowls of every shape and size covered the table, filled with dips and sauces and yogurts. Alex was famished, so he tried everything put in front of him, recognizing some of the treats from his grandmother’s cooking.
Chowdhury spoke with a stiff but welcoming manner. He read from a small blue notecard.
“We are delighted you are here, Professor. My associates and I are eager to hear your views on the reforms to the financial system that will make us all better able to prosper.”
Looking around at the assembled group, Alex thought the financial system was as relevant to their lives as the moon landing. And he had not expected to be “on” during lunch.
Chowdhury sat back on his elbows and looked invitingly at Alex. By this time, a small crowd had gathered around, and there were about twenty men sitting on their heels like catchers at a baseball game. The crowd was bigger than at the conference, and Alex never missed a chance to talk when handed a microphone, so he stood and addressed the audience as if they were bank regulators or academics back home. He went on without notes for about forty-five minutes, then asked for questions, but seeing none, thanked his host in generous terms and sat down.
“I hope that was what you were looking for,” he tilted toward Chowdhury and whispered in his ear as the crowd clapped politely. Even someone as confident as Alex felt like an imposter on occasion, and fishing for compliments was a symptom of that particular disease.
Chowdhury rose to his feet, spoke in a language Alex did not know, and the crowd dispersed. Within moments, they were alone in the courtyard. It was spooky how quickly everyone vanished. His host took him by the arm, and they strolled the perimeter together, walking in the welcome shade of persimmon and pomegranate trees.
“I am a great admirer of yours, Professor Johnson,” he started. “I have read your work, and know you to be a fine thinker, a prolific scholar, and a friend of Islam.” The first two points were platitudes, but Alex never minded having his ego stroked; the final comment made the flesh on his arms tingle.
Chowdhury went on: “I know your mother is Lebanese, and that you were raised in a home that understood and appreciated Muslim traditions and values. We in Pakistan need friends of influence and intelligence in the American elite who have these traits. I hope our chat will be the first of many, and, to paraphrase my favorite American movie, that this is the beginning of a great friendship between us.”
Alex nodded, more than a little uncomfortable. He and Chowdhury paced around the perimeter with the sun dropping lower beyond the river in the distance. Their conversation turned to the rules of cricket and the names of the trees that lined the courtyard. Alex told of his family and his interest in the subcontinent; Chowdhury lamented the clash of civilizations but sounded optimistic about the future of his country and the region. Alex loved ideas and anyone that loved them. After thirty minutes, he was in love.
They finally returned to where deans Khan and Rajput were waiting. It seemed they were standing in the same spots with the same expressions on their faces as when they dropped him off three or four hours ago. The scene added to The Truman Show quality of the whole trip so far: as if the conference was staged just for him and that when he left the room, nothing went on until he returned.
Alex missed the rest of the conference that day, so he dined alone in the hotel restaurant that night. He skipped the next day of the conference, deciding instead to see the highlights of Lahore. He toured the Badshahi and Wazir Khan mosques, Fort Shahi Qila, the Shalamar Gardens, and the Bagh-e-Jinnah. Alex ate from food stalls and wandered aimlessly through alleyways and markets that seemed to stretch endlessly in every direction. Chowdhury was right that Alex, despite his Anglo name and appearance, was partially of and deeply intrigued by this part of the world. A day in Lahore cemented it. It was the perfect day, and the thing Alex liked best about the freedom of his job.
It almost made him forget the odd meeting he’d had with Chowdhury. But something about it nagged at him. He couldn’t help but wonder whether all was what it seemed on this trip. Who exactly was Chowdhury and what connection did he have with the conference? How did he know Alex’s mom was Lebanese and why did he think Alex had sympathetic views about Islam?
Alex boarded a flight the next day, and as the plane home chased the setting sun, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the trip was wrong. He couldn’t sleep or follow the plot of the latest thriller he’d picked up at a bookstore in Heathrow on the way over. Something was off, but he didn’t know what.
When he saw on the seatback screen that the Boeing 777 had reentered American airspace in northern Maine, he felt somewhat safe again. He finally fell asleep. By the time they landed in Chicago, he had a message from the dean at his school. She needed to see him first thing Monday morning. It was urgent.
